


Scenes from a Playoffs Round One

by sk8rpssockpup (MissIzzy)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2011 Stanley Cup Playoffs, Angst, Birthday, Casual Sex, Community: hockeyanonmeme, F/M, M/M, Oral Sex, Pack Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-28
Updated: 2011-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-29 04:50:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissIzzy/pseuds/sk8rpssockpup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The playoffs are a time of elation and despair, also of mental turns and exhaustion. Oh, and tired cuddling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scenes from a Playoffs Round One

**Author's Note:**

> Group of loosely related ficlets written one a day, two as responses to hockeyanonmeme prompts, during the first round of the 2011 playoffs.

“Already, everyone, listen up. The first thing you need to know is that we can beat Vancouver.”  
  
They’re all there in that dressing room, for a practice they all of them had a least a moment or so of being convinced wasn’t going to be necessary, and only is because the Stars proved themselves equal to the Blackhawks in their inability to close a playoff berth out. Jonathan was left to wonder if they had anything left for the prize they’ve ended up with.  
  
He’s trying to keep himself contained, to not pace or clench his fists, but he’s been building up inside since the moment the final horn told him yesterday they weren’t supposed to make the playoffs that year, and their doing so after all that night didn’t affected the process much, aside from maybe, maybe not causing him to just deflate. The general mood of the others is the exact kind of tired cheer that smacks of complacency, as if to say, “Well, noone can say we didn’t make the playoffs, so we don’t need to actually win in them.”  
  
“We are as good a team as they are,” Johnny continues. “We haven’t been playing as well as they have, no, but the season’s changing, so it’s a good time to change that. We have beaten them in the playoffs twice in a row, and there’s no reason we can’t do it a third time.”  
  
They’re listening right now, he thinks, looking at their sombre faces. The terror is there’s no way to make absolutely sure they remember his words when the puck drops in two days’ time; it’s been such a long season.

His eyes linger a moment on Patrick. He already has that stupid mullet which Johnny’s hated in the past but is kind of glad to see now. He’s also the only one who dares to smile slightly. But Johnny finds that doesn’t bother him, if only because sooner or later, that smile’s sure to be wiped off. He might just have to make sure it was sooner, as in today.  
  
Which is the topic of his next words, “Second, it’s going to hurt. It always hurts, of course, but it’s going to hurt more and be harder than last year. We’ve gotta take it and get through, that’s all we can do.   
  
And third, not only can we beat Vancouver, but it’s what we ought to do. To say they ought to win is to say this year’s team cannot compare to last year’s, that we lost all our worth because of the salary cap, that we should be grateful we were able to win the Cup once. Does anyone here believe that?”  
  
A small chorus of “no”s. He would have liked a bigger one but he can work with what he has.  
  
“All right then, people,” he says. “Let’s do this thing.”   
  
And they actually give him applause. Just like all the people in the media right now praising him, “carrying the team on his back” or whatever grandiose words they were using for it, as if it’s so incredible that a captain should do his job. Not that they wouldn’t have changed their tune had that Stars-Wild game gone the other way, but as it is, what do they care how much they needed last-minute luck?  
  
But as they file out, he has to put it from his head. He’s got the hardest playoff series he’s ever faced to win.  
  
***  
  
Henrik knows that Sean will always be more or less an asshole, but he has now learned to identify those times when he really does need to keep his mouth shut.  
  
Such as right after the first game, when he gave it everything he had and he knew he actually did a damn good job and it didn’t get them a damn thing, except too much of his energy sapped and it’s a good thing the schedule’s going to give them some extra rest but it might not be enough, because he doesn’t know if has even four more performances like that left in him, let alone sixteen, and everyone else is behaving to him as if they want to apologize, even the coaching staff, and he wants to scream but he can’t because people would hear him and then the tongues would start wagging: Lundqvist is cracking, they’d cry in triumph, he made too many consecutive starts and now he’s going to die off and leave his team defenseless. The worst part is they might just be right.  
  
Sean does make a remark, as soon as they’re alone, that he might have been scratched because he was now more useful providing stress relief to the goalie than he was for his on-ice play. But after that he shuts up and spreads his legs, and the only things to come out of him for a while then are along the lines of “Hank, please,” and “Oh God, more.”   
  
He handles the clean-up too without being asked, letting Henrik rest. But when he’s nearly fallen asleep with Sean still working with the washcloth, he speaks again, saying, “For the record, you do realize tonight was absolutely, positively, one hundred percent not your fault? Because it really wasn’t.”  
  
Henrik has to open his eyes to glare balefully at him. “Well, it wasn’t!” he insists.  
  
But then he shuts up again, puts the cloth away, and lays down next to Henrik with an arm carelessly thrown across him. So all right, he’s now  _mostly_  learned to identify those times when he really does need to keep his mouth shut.  
  
***  
  
Claude no longer remembers just when or how he got into the habit of keeping himself nearby and more or less standing or sitting guard over Danny when the latter gives his sticks the usual pre-game pep talk. But now it’s as much a part of their game-day prep as Danny’s moment alone in the rink.  
  
Tonight he’s sitting next to Danny as he gives the talk in the dressing room, flowing from English to French and back again so haphazardly Claude doubts he knows he’s doing it. The sticks understand both languages, and so does Claude. The others ignore them as they check their own sticks, get their helmets on, lace their skates up. After all, everyone’s minds, their own two included, are on the exact same thing.  
  
Danny makes an awful stick/sabre joke, one that normally would make Claude half howl, half groan. But he doesn’t feel the urge to do either. It’s not even because it’s the playoffs, or at least he doesn’t think it is. When the two of them are like this, Danny’s soft words almost caressing his sticks, barely reaching Claude’s ears, he often feels swept away by an awe, the realization that this one of the looks into Danny’s private world that he’s allowed to take, just like he’s been allowed to be a member of his household and an important part of the lives of his kids.  
  
“Got all that?” Danny’s wrapping up. “ _Bon._  Let’s do this thing.” He lifts his head as he says it so it’s said to Claude as much as to the sticks in his hand. Claude smiles and they both reach for their helmets.  
  
***  
  
It’s only two games in, and they officially have to hope the series now went to six games at least, but as Brent exchanges weary looks with Duncs after a second loss he finds himself thinking it would be a miracle if they could both make it through one more game alive. He even finds himself also thinking he wouldn’t mind if they were split up again, much as it made the entire year hurt, if it happens to lead to them spending fewer minutes on the ice, Duncs especially, when he’s been running himself into the ice since forever already. They can’t demand this much from anyone, not even Duncs.  
  
The two of them aren’t the only ones, though. Tazer by all rights should have drained himself completely just getting them here, but he’s still writing away the checks his body probably can’t even pay the penalties on anymore, and both the Patricks are nearly as bad.   
  
It’s the five of them in the elevator, him and Duncs and Tazer and Kaner and Sharpie, and Duncs has his eyes closed and looks like he’d nodded off and Brent’s hold his hands so he’ll have something to distract him from collapsing, because he doesn’t have the energy to actually hold Duncs up like he’s sometimes had to do in the past.  
  
“Almost there...” Kaner drawls as the elevator creeps up past the third floor. Is it just Brent’s imagination, or is this the slowest elevator he’s ever been on? Maybe it’s tired too.  
  
“Gotta go up four more for me,” groans Sharpie.  
  
“Duncs and me both gotta go up further,” Brent tells him, as he somehow manages to grab Duncs’ arm before he starts swaying dangerously forward. “Really don’t want to stand that long,” he adds.  
  
Kaner turns his head around in slow motion to look at the three of them. “You know,” he says, “they make the beds big in here. If you don’t want to go all the way up we could probably fit you in.” That’s true enough, especially since actually for the past few months he and Johnny have had the sort of thing where one of the beds always ends up unused, so the three of them could pile into that one.  
  
“I’m for it,” says Brent. Especially since it allows him to keep an eye on Duncs, just to make sure he doesn’t collapse and fall asleep in the middle of the hallway or something.  
  
A few very long minutes later, when they stumble as one sleep-needing mass into Johnny and Patrick’s hotel room, there’s barely time taken to kick shoes off and discard ties and jackets before all five of them at the same time scramble onto the bed nearer to the door. Brent’s shoved up against the headboard, causing several aches and pains to flare to life, as somewhere near him Sharpie grumbles, “Get off, this one’s ours.”  
  
“No it’s not,” retorted Patrick, even as his hand lightly slapped against Brent’s chin. “This is our room, we get to sleep in which bed we want.”  
  
“You’re hosts,” Sharpie argued. “You should be nice ones.”  
  
Brent ignores the argument; he has other things to worry about, like Duncs threatening to slip off the edge and get himself yet another bruise, so he has to focus on keeping a hold on him. “Duncs, you still awake?” he murmurs as he gently bumps their foreheads together.  
  
“Barely,” Duncs murmurs back. “You smell nice.” Wow, he’s really in bad shape if he’s saying things like that. This requires extreme measures: Brent hooks his arm around Duncs’ back, and pulls his head down to his chest. Which causes Duncs to giggle and whisper conspiratorially, “I can hear your heart.”  
  
And maybe it’s because Brent’s so tired, but he doesn’t mind. In fact, one of his hands spreads itself across Duncs’ back, careful not to touch where he’s been hurt, until he can feel his friend’s heart as well. The other entwines into his hair. Duncs is now secure against him; they’re very close to the edge of the bed, but Brent won’t let Duncs fall.  
  
All this distracted him from the argument the other three were having, turning it into a pleasant buzz in his ears. But apparently they’ve just settled it, because a moment later another arm wraps around him, a relatively small body presses against his back, and Kaner’s voice sounds in his ear, “You’re comfy, Seabs.”  
  
“Is he?” asks Tazers amused voice from somewhere before another arm lands on him and Patrick’s body is pressed harder against him. Patrick makes a happy sound into Brent’s shoulder.  
  
“Budge up,” Sharpie orders, but Brent isn’t going anywhere; he has to make sure Duncs doesn’t fall. Behind him, their hosts simultaneously make grumpy noises of refusal. “Fine then,” behind him Brent hears a soft thud, and Kaner protests with a very sleepy, “Owww.” He’s jostled against Brent as they shift further, but that’s okay so long as Brent doesn’t have to move. Duncs really is asleep now; Brent can feel it in his breathing. He crooks his head down and presses a light kiss to the top of his hair, and falls asleep to the smell of it.  
  
***  
  
For ten months out of the year Sanja is straight(well, okay, it’s always been eleven months out of the year so far, but they’re trying not to think about that). But during the playoffs, he’s often horny, occasionally desperately needy, and always knowing perfectly well he cannot spare the energy needed to find a girl willing to fuck him, especially when they’re in an enemy city. That’s when Sasha gets to suck him.  
  
The problem is, as he slides his lips down thick swollen flesh, stretching his jaw wide in anticipation of his mouth being filled to bursting, the taste of it is too familiar; memories flash through Sasha’s head of years gone by. This has always been the situation when he's sucked Sanja’s cock; it’s always been when they’ve lost, when they’ve messed it up, when they’ve failed to go as long or as far as they’re supposed to. Even on the nights it’s been after a win, more often than not they’ve still been thinking that. He eases it down his throat, and he likes it there, but he hopes at least Sanja’s stopped thinking because he  _can’t_. Can’t stop thinking about those six shots and if he’d just gotten one of them...well maybe they would’ve lost anyway, as Jason has already made sure to remind him, but maybe they wouldn’t have.  
  
When one hand strays to Sanja’s hip, he discovers his teammate is trembling, but Sasha knows he’s good at this, probably better than the majority of the girls Sanja’s had. When Sanja’s hands first touch his head that’s nothing unusual-until he realizes he’s not shoving Sasha’s head down or even grabbing his hair at all; he’s gently touching, as if to make sure Sasha’s really there. It causes him to look up.  
  
When Sasha has done this, Sanja has usually closed his eyes and presumably pretended he’s a girl. But tonight he’s looking straight down at him, eyes black and heated and pleading. They flutter shut as Sasha swallows around him; a finger strokes Sasha’s ear. There’s something about him that seems almost apologetic.  
  
It’s about that stupid last goal, Sasha knows it. He’s blaming himself and he’s pissed off at himself and worried it’s going to wreck everything, and hopefully he’ll have it shaken off by Wednesday but tonight it’s cutting him deep and there’s nothing Sasha can do about it.  
  
All he can do is continue to suck, make him groan something along the lines of  _good_ , and moments later he’s spilling down Sasha’s throat, and it’s hot enough Sasha can forget.  
  
He can forget even longer, too, when as soon as he pulls up Sanja flips them over, and much to Sasha’s surprise slides down to return the favor; most of the time he’s just jerked Sasha off. His mouth is the hottest thing Sasha’s ever had, and he forces himself to last just a little bit of time, yanking the sheets hard enough to tear, but still it’s over within a minute; Sasha comes so hard his teeth rattle, panting and whining as Sanja suckles him until he’s limp.  
  
Most of him is coming down from it still when he hears Sanja spit down towards the floor, and then move up to press their foreheads together. “Thank you,” he whispers. They haven’t kissed tonight; while Sasha has lost track of the number of times he’s blown Sanja he can count their kisses on one hand. But with Sanja breathing heavy and tired, and reaching down to wrap his hand around Sasha as the older Russian thanks him in turn, he finds this gesture, that of his teammate and friend, to be worthier of receiving than a kiss anyway.  
  
***  
  
Brent has to spend fifteen minutes away from the bench, and Duncan is spending it slowly going mad.  
  
At least he’s not spending much of it sitting around, but when he gets back on the bench he doesn’t have the slighest idea how he’s just played. And he hopes nobody tries to talk to him about it right now because he honestly doesn’t give a fuck. He should, he knows, if only because not only do they really need to win this game but they’re actually in a position where they can do so. But he’d happily walk up to the devil right now and tell him Vancouver can sweep it for all he cares so long as Seabs is all right. He’s trying to work himself up on anger at Torres, which maybe should help.  Next game, provided there's one.  
  
He’s trying to pay at least some attention to what’s going on on the ice, but a treacherous voice reminds him he’ll  _probably_  notice if anyone scores anyway, so why not spend the time until then dwelling on all the possible ways Brent could be permanently damaged, remembering how he even passed out last year and noone told him before he found out from a fucking reporter and thinking that could be happening too right now, thinking he’s definitely taking Brent home tonight and returning a couple of favors from yesterday morning when he woke up in his arms, but then why did have to be so stupidly noble and take those extra shifts, and what if Brent has to go to the hospital and Tazer might be an asshole and send Sharpie to physically restrain Duncan from following him there because of some bullshit about needing more sleep. He’s looking at the passage out more than he is at the ice.  
  
When he’s sent back onto the ice he again gets off it with no idea how he played. But then Coach Quenville looks at him, and sighes, “Fine. Go check on him before you faint.”  
  
Duncan thinks he hears Johnny protest from somewhere, or maybe that’s just his imagination because he’s not sure Johnny isn’t on the ice, but just to be safe he bolts before coach can change his mind.  
  
He reaches the Quiet Room just as Seabs is coming out. His face falls. “Shit, Duncs, you too?” he cries. “Are you all right?”  
  
About half a dozen emotions run through Duncan at once. Finally relief mixes with gratitude-he just got murdered on the ice and Seabs is still worrying more about him-and causes him to laugh, and throw his arms around his friend. “I’m fine, Seabsie,” he sighes into the other’s ear. “I’m perfectly fine.”  
  
***  
  
Patrick supposes it ought to be sweet and romantic and everything, that Abby now knows him so well that as soon as he turns off the phone in such a manner to make it clear he really wishes it had a base to be slammed down onto, she says, “Seabs is out, isn’t he? Do you think it’s over?”  
  
“All I think is that those bastards better go down to whoever plays them next,” he growls. He’s tempted to say yes, she should assume he’s not going to be flying out again and will be free starting tomorrow, but he refuses to concede the Canucks that just yet.  
  
Then he has to sit down, away from the phone, away from the news, away from poor Tazer’s voice so choked with rage it left Patrick worried about him. They’re all feeling it, anger not just at Torres, and the league that didn’t suspend him, or even the Canucks in general, but at themselves too. Patrick has to close his eyes to keep from seeing red. Changes or no, how had they come to this?  
  
He hears her gentle sigh before the soft warmth of her settles against him. “Remember last summer, that evening when it was just the three of us sitting together like this? You, me, and Stanley.”  
  
“The best summer or our lives,” he agrees, the tightness in his chest easing a little. They called it that then already; maybe somewhere inside they knew. Not that it was perfection by any means; saying goodbye to Adam was very painful, and he still wants to put a  _so far_  on it, but he’s not sure he can. At any rate they can’t get married again, so there’s that.   
  
But the real question isn’t whether this soon to arrive summer is going to be painful. It’s what their team’s going to look like at the end of it. How many new teammates, if there’s going to be a new coaching staff, or even a new manager. All things Patrick can’t control or even predict, enough to drive him crazy.  
  
So it’s not only sweet and romantic and everything that Abby knows him so well, it’s also very good, because she knows to squeeze his hand and says, “Don’t worry about the rest of it yet. Just see if you can score a goal or two tonight. It might just help win the game.”  
  
***  
  
For his first playoffs, there’s a lot Corey was warned about. Exhaustion. Stress. Feeling after the third game like he’d already played seven. How fucking painful it would be to lose.  
  
Noone, however, thought to warn him about the disorientation of waking up in the same bed as the top defensemen out become some bastard from the other team whacked him in the head and his normal heterosexual life partner, and needing ten minutes to recall exactly how that came about, and when he didn’t even drink last night. The fact that he was tucked in makes it even more disturbing, though at least he’s still in his dress shirt and slacks. So does the fact that while Keith is lying on top of the blankets, smushed between Corey and Seabs, there is no way to described his position in relation to the latter besides  _snuggled._  
  
He vaguely recalls the wild joy of the dressing room, as if they’d just won the series they’re probably still going to lose, and breaking down and confessing to a couple of people that probably included Keith that he’d been so scared of never ever winning a playoff game, and they can talk all they want about how he’s done fine, it’s just the rest of the team’s been bad, but a goalie needs to  _win_ , it’s like he can’t breathe if he doesn’t, and he’s only starting to realize that this past week; if he takes any lesson from this year, it’ll be that. The relief of last night's win's still sinking in ten or so hours later.  
  
Then someone must have decided he wasn’t capable of looking after himself, and he remembers being dragged along by Keith, while with his other hand he was on the phone with his fiancee, telling her because he was going to check on Seabs anyway what with his girlfriend out of town they’d dumped Corey on him too, and she definitely shouldn’t wait up for him. He doesn’t remember Keith having to argue with her. But he also remembers someone mentioning to him sometime last night that he’s not the first player to share a bed with these two even this playoff series, so maybe this sort of thing happens all the time and everyone’s just used to it.  
  
When he himself is still waking up still tired and sore all over, the rest’s easy enough to figure out; once he’d discharged his duties of seeing his friend was in good shape and the goalie was in a safe place for the night Keith must have just run out of energy. So the only real unexplained part of the whole business was why the two defensemen were cuddled up like a pair of Europeans or something.   
  
He even wants to wake them up to ask, but he’s got more sense than that. But then Seabs groans, and they both shift, and holy shit, is Seabs actually walking his fingers up Keith’s forehead? And Keith’s eyes are open, and he doesn’t look like he minds, just asks, “How’s the head?”  
  
“After having you on top of me all night, how to you think?” grins the other. They are not having sex, Corey has to remind himself at this point; they’re merely Keith and Seabrook, which is a similar but not identical phenomenon, was how Sharp put it. Keith’s engaged. To a woman. Seabrook has a girlfiend, even though she's out of town at the moment.  They could’ve fooled him.  
  
Meanwhile, Keith’s grin is getting bigger, and he says, “Hope your head’s not so damaged you don’t remember what day it is...”  
  
“Oh no,” Seabs groans even louder. “You are not going to...”  
  
But now Keith is looking at Corey, saying, “Hey, Crawf, you gotta sing with me here. Our host turns 26 today!”  
  
“Might I remind you,” Seabs is growling, “that I have a head injury, and should therefore be exempted from all...”  
  
But too late, Keith is singing, and maybe it’s only because he’s still tired but his ear’s so bad Corey finds himself having to sing along just to keep him vaguely on melody, “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you...”  
  
Seabs dramatically throws his head back in exasperation, but he actually seems to be smiling a little. They get a little louder-not much; don’t want to actually worsen the poor guy’s headache, and slow the tempo. It takes them over a minute to sing the last line, by which time Corey’s holding back the giggles.  
  
Years later, when Corey tells his children about his first Stanley Cup playoffs, this will be their favorite part, how he and Duncan Keith sang “Happy Birthday” to an injured Brent Seabrook early in the morning, the day between their first elimination-averting rout of the Vancouver Canucks and his first career playoff shutout, and that’s good, because it’ll also be his most vivid memory of that April; he’ll still recall Keith’s worn voice nearly losing tune completely and Seabs rolling his eyes as he pressed his head back into the pillow, and the especially the strange giddiness he felt at the end of it, as if these were the moments in life you lived for. Thankfully they’ll be too young to ask how he and Duncs ended up together at Seabs’ house early that morning in the first place.  
  
***  
  
Through three years of playoffs, Sasha has never approached Alex to initiate sex, and Alex never thought he would; he should be shocked. But he can’t exactly be when Sasha dropped enough hints and then so blatantly contrived to get the two of them alone in some storage room after the game that even Alex couldn’t miss the message. Lucky for him Alex is willing to indulge him anything tonight.   
  
Besides, getting a good blowjob(and Sasha’s were among the best) after a hard-fought overtime victory with the adrenaline still coursing through the blood is one of life’s great pleasures. So when Sasha shoves Alex against the handy nearby wall, drops to his knees, and begins fumbling with the fastening of his trousers, Alex grins and lets him do it.  
  
Still he looks just a little apologetic, and stops to explain, “I want to do this when it feels like it does right now. Like an actual  _win._ ”  
  
“You don't need an excuse,” Alex tells him, and groans a little as Sasha pulled his cock out. He’s not that hard yet, but his talented teammate will no doubt take care of that. "Not tonight, anyway."   
  
Sometimes it worries Alex how much he enjoys this; Sasha’s tongue drawing from his body electric sensations, snapping his eyes shut and his hips forward, and as far as Alex can tell he has no gag reflex, the slightest urging getting him to smoothly swallow Alex until his nose is pressed against his balls. He tangles his hands into Sasha’s blonde locks and lets his brain shut down completely, not even bothering to think about a girl, just lets three days worth of tension pool into any almost painful pleasure, loses all track of time as he thrusts weakly down Sasha’s throat. He comes almost lazily, the pleasure of it swelling from his groin, tingling to his feet, and emerging from his mouth as a long, low happy moan.  
  
He lets himself stay there and enjoy the feeling of utter satiation, even for a few seconds after Sasha pulls free and starts panting almost loudly enough to drown out the sound of his struggling with his own buttons. But on a night like this, he really should fully return the favor, and when he looks down, he can see Sasha’s nearly shaking; he wonders if it’s as much with adrenaline crash as with lust.  
  
Even when helped to his feet Sasha can’t stand up straight, his body curves over Alex’s shoulder and steadies itself with his hands on Alex’s back as Alex gets his pants down and gets to work. He might not have Sasha’s expertise, but he knows about a few things that will make a man feel good and Sasha’s not hard to please, a quick move with his tongue has him whimpering, fingers digging into Alex’s jacket, another has him twitching, whispering, “More...please more...”  
  
It takes longer than it did on Sunday, if only because Sasha’s body is as pulverized as everyone else’s, but finally Sasha whines as he fills Alex’s mouth, and suddenly he realizes there’s nowhere to spit; he’s going to have to swallow. He can’t concentrate on doing that with Sasha’s now limp cock in his mouth, so he withdraws, causing the older man to unceremoniously topple onto his own limbs.  
  
He’s still lying there when Alex has finally managed to get it all down; he’s obliged to manuever him into a sitting position and button them both back up by himself. “Do I have to carry you?” he asks, smiling.  
  
“That would be a very nice thing for you to do,” says Sasha, but in the end he accepts an offer to simply lean on Alex’s arm. He might have to stay with Sasha the rest of the night, unless he can foist him off on Jason(and if Jason smells the sex on him Alex isn’t sure how he’ll react). But it’s okay. It’s all okay. First goal to provoke the kind of comeback that can propel a team to the Cup sometimes, and he is mildly worried about closing it out but they can think about that tomorrow, and their foreheads press together all the way back to the rest of the team.  
  
***  
  
Jonathan’s heart hasn’t stopped pounding since Duncan scored that first goal. He doesn’t know how he kept his mind clear that first period, and now it’s all running through his head. Up 3-0. Game going the same way the previous one had. Duncs on fire. Canucks complacent, Luongo unlikely the last the game out, if his ability to predict these things is right. If they win tonight, they’ll be within one game of tying it, and they’ll be back on home ice, and everyone knows how the psychology dictates Game 7.  _They can do this._  He’s been repeated that to himself for a week, but there’s more of that week where he didn’t believe it than he’ll ever admit to anyone. Now there’s no way he won’t believe it until the final horn sounds of that final game.  
  
Coach Quennville is laying out the game plan, but John thinks he’s going to have to repeat it; half the team is still in shock from the whiplash. He rises while the coach sums it up, trying to look into each and every one of their eyes. His excitement grows with what he sees. They’re every last one of them believing again, maybe believing for the first time all together.  
  
“How much of that did you just hear?” he first asks. “It’s okay; I’ll repeat it, but you will need to hear it all then. Remember what happened in New York last night and in LA the night before that.” Several nods; he isn’t the only one who’s had that plaguing his mind. “Just to be safe, I think we should shut them out if we can. And I happen to believe we can.” A glance at Crawf; he’s giving another nod.  
  
Looking over them all from the front, there are a few anxious thoughts creeping in. Will they be able to score any further if Luongo does indeed get pulled, and what if they stop starting him? Will the minutes start to catch up to them too much when they have to push it to Game 7? How likely is Duncs, the beast avenging his fallen mate at the moment, to burn himself out before he could afford to? Much as Torres’ lack of punishment, unfortunate thought it is, has probably worked in their favor by juicing them up, what if he takes out someone else?   
  
He mentally shoves them down and continues. “We all know what they’ve been saying. Once you get into a three game hole to a team like the Canucks, it’s officially hopeless. Teams almost never come back from 3-0 down, not even when one of them did only last year. That’s what they think of us. They think either the Canucks will stage one of those comebacks that are all the rage this week, or they’ll simply win on Sunday. Sunday we’ll deal with when it comes, though I don’t see how much different it could be from tonight, now that we’ve finally started playing the way we knew we could play. We left it off late, yes, but not too late.  _All we have to do is keep going._  No room for error any more, not in this game or any other game.”  
  
He then seagues into a repeat of the lecture they’ve just been given. He watches Duncs lean forward; everyone’s eyes are transfixed as if they’re hanging on his every word to bring them salvation. He does what he can. He himself is having trouble hearing his own voice over the blood still rushing around his ears.   
  
***  
  
Michal knew, even before he played his first NHL game, that there were bonds between goalies that transcended any rivalries between the teams they played on. Around the time he ended up in bar in Chinatown one December night, sharing drinks with Varly, Marc-Andre Fleury, and Brent Johnson, sharing stories about aching back and groins and pucks that hit the padding so hard they still got bruised, he began to fully understand the depth of that.  
  
It’s a little odd, though, for it only to be a couple hours after his first series victory, a sea of red still swarming the streets, to be sitting with Henrik Lundqvist in that same bar. At least noone’s giving him shit for it; in fact everyone in the bar who recognizes them is being incredibly nice to his companion, talking about how they admired him and thought he’d done a good job and they didn’t hold the bad behavior of certain people who would remain nameless against him. Michal wondered how they would react, though, if they’d known they were throwing veiled insults at Lundqvist’s boyfriend. Or possibly just his fuck buddy; noone’s sure when it comes to those two. The older goalie is clearly relieved to sit down in a corner, out of sight of the windows. Michal decides to be nice and pay for them both.  
  
“I think I am supposed to make a speech now,” Henrik says when they’re half through their first drinks. “Give you a lot of advice about things, right?”  
  
“If you don’t want to...” says Michal, though yes, he was kind of hoping for that. Things have been straightforward so far, but he keeps waiting for his head to catch up to the facts, to feel scared.  
  
“I don’t want to talk about hockey that much right now, no. But...” He grinned. “I will say only this: make sure you wash your underwear before each game. If you know how to iron do that too.”  
  
Michal hopes his facial expression doesn’t look too ridiculous, though there’s no way he can keep his lower jaw from dropping as his mind tries to make sense of Henrik’s words. Several possible significances of them occur to him, all of them extremely embarrassing to think about.  
  
And then he hears himself asking, “Why before, and not after?”  
  
There’s a pause, during which Henrik looks vaguely surprised to hear that reponse. Then suddenly he cracks up. Michal starts laughing too.  
  
In accordance with Henrik’s wishes, they don’t talk about hockey after that, except when they’re waiting for the check, when Henrik wishes him luck for the next round. Before which Michal really thinks he is going to wash his underwear. Maybe just for the first game, and he doesn’t know how to iron so he can’t do that, but it couldn’t hurt to take advice offered by such a man as Henrik Lundqvist, could it?  
  
***  
  
Sidney is waking up at what is not his usual time to wake up when the puck drop is at 7:10, alone in his hotel room. It leaves him fighting a feeling of abandonment.  
  
He has to force himself to stare at the clock a full minute, to tell himself it’s okay. It’s long before five, and he’ll be able to have his sandwich at the normal time, since he’s gone back to eating them. If he’ll be able to swallow; he’ll have to gain that ability back first. Also be reasonably confident his stomach will hold anything down.  
  
“Deep breaths,” he frantically whispers to himself. In and out, and after a minute he’s able to think straight again, but his stomach’s still churning. It hasn’t not been churning much since Game 2.  
  
“If you think you’ve lived and died by this team’s victories and losses wait until you’re stuck watching them from your couch,” he heard Jordan lament months ago, back when he wouldn’t have imagined how relevant those words were about to become to him. Tonight, of course, he’ll be in the arena again, but he’s starting to think that’s even worse, being  _so close_  to the action and still having it out of his hands. Getting to talk to the others helps, but he still can’t actually do it with them.  
  
Turning on the lamp so he can get a better view of the ceiling, he wonders if he could get away with screaming. Probably not, there are teammates only next door. Too bad; that might make him feel better. Or it could cause him to start seeing spots again, and if he does he  _will_  scream and he doesn’t care who would hear then. He just wants this to be _over_ , to be able to move about the ice freely and be a proper, working part of this team. Hell, at this point he’d settle for being told no, he’s going to be out until next year, because at least then he’d  _know_.  
  
When the door opens, he has an absolutely mad impulse to yell at whoever it is, as if this long-running playoff series in which he’s unable to participate in is causing his constant tight control of himself to unravel. But he won’t, not when he sees it’s Marc. Yelling at Marc is the last thing anyone should be doing right now, and while someone might be so stupid as to do so anyway, that someone won’t be Sidney.  
  
Especially because Marc’s got that wild look on his face which he gets sometimes, which he had a lot in the early part of this season, which if he’s still wearing it as little as an hour from now it’ll be sure disaster but if Sidney can fix him now he’ll feel a lot better about this. Unfortunately, he doesn’t speak, just closes the door behind him without asking if he can come in or explaining how he got a room key, staggers over to the other bed and sits down.  
  
“What do you want?” asks Sidney softly. “It’s whatever you want.”  _Please respond,_  he doesn’t say.  _Please give me something to do for you._  
  
A long, terrible moment. Then he whimpers  _“Serre moi,”_  and his walk is still unsteady as he moves between the two beds but Sidney pulls him down into his arms, strokes his back gently, and is nearly overcome with relief when a minute or so later the wildness in his eyes begins to fade.  
  
But when they close a minute after that, the goalie is still thrumming in Sidney’s embrace. He, meanwhile, closes his eyes himself and concentrates on soothing. Either it’ll work, and he’ll be back to normal by six or so, or...  
  
***  
  
“It’s not the same, you know, as getting to do it immediately.”  
  
If Danny is to directly address this comment, he’ll have to admit Claude’s right, it’s not. But given that minutes after Claude pinned Danny to the hallway wall and made clear with just his eyes that he wanted to blow him  _right now_  and Danny hastily dissuaded him, the kids found them and nearly smothered them with their hugs, well, they simply have to make do with a few hours later. Danny usually doesn’t even like to have sex when the boys are in the house with them, though given how dead on their feet they were when they got home half an hour ago, there’s no doubt they’re currently sleeping peacefully.  
  
Besides, he feels pretty good right now, stretched out between the sheets, Claude’s hair tangled on his stomach, scratches from his stubble still tingling on his thighs, his come still warm on his leg-from what Danny can tell, he came just from blowing him, which is kind of thrilling, really. “It’s wasn’t bad, though,” he sighes, “was it?”  
  
“Like it could ever be,” Claude whispers, his voice still having some heat left. So does his mouth as he presses quick, hard kisses to Danny’s parted lips. “I’ve been wanting to do that to you since Sunday,” he tells him between them. “Since that intermission, watching you speak like that. Just wanted to get down on my knees in front of everybody. These past few days, the way you’ve been...I don’t even have words.”  
  
“You haven’t been that bad yourself these past few days,” replies Danny when Claude gives him a chance to. “I’m proud of you.”  
  
It’s hard to tell in the dim lighting, but Claude does seem to glow a little. “Wish I could’ve gotten that goal against Miller tonight, though. Especially after all he said about you.”  
  
“It doesn’t matter,” Danny tells him gently, because if there’s one thing he’s learned in all his years, it’s that there’s words that matters and words that don’t, the latter especially after you’ve won. But even before then, the quiet happiness that dominates his life right now is a protection not dependant on winning. “Forget about it. The two of us are here right now and we’re going to the next round. That’s all that matters.”  
  
***  
  
Back in Chicago, Patrick shaves in Johnny’s bathroom, in the middle of the night, mostly because that’s when he wakes up. He wants to do it while Johnny’s sleeping, so when he wakes Patrick can focus on him. Now is when his skull’s finally stopping aching, and he’s just rested enough he’s not worried about accidentally slicing his chin open. He’s far enough inside the building that it’s impossible to hear anything happening on the streets, and both his and Johnny’s phones are delibrately turned off.   
  
When his face is bare and dried, he returns to the bedroom and is glad to find Johnny still sleeping soundly, the way he hasn’t since they’d lost the opening game. They all need to catch up on sleep before they face the summer, but Johnny especially; it was on the plane when the very last of the adrenadline wore off that he pretty much shut down, his body demanding he finally rest it. The sight of it kind of shocked some of their newer teammates who hadn’t seen him during the Cup run last year, but even some of the ones who should have known better looked a little surprised. Patrick’s starting to understand how much strain and sleeplessness Johnny will conceal from everyone, the image of insistent optimism he’ll project if he at all can manage it, no matter what the toll it’ll take on him, and how he’ll even fool himself sometimes, so that only Patrick has understood just what he’s put himself through these past two weeks.  
  
It awes and humbles him, that he’s been let in. It also does away any uncertainty he might have held these past few months, since  _that_  first night happened, about just how much he loves this man.  
  
It also scares him, because now he doesn’t know what to do. Because before this it’s mostly been Johnny angry, Johnny determined, Johnny not needing stupid Kaner’s help. But now, he knows Johnny is shattered, and he wants to help put him back together, but he doesn’t know how to do things like that. He’s never faced anything serious like this off the ice.  
  
And that’s when he’s still hurting himself. The truth is, the past twenty-four hours or so, since they lost, all he’s really wanted is for Johnny is to hold him close and kiss him and let him rest on his broad chest, and make him feel as if everything’s all right again. But he knows he has to be the strong one right now.

And then, even as he’s thinking that, his moving about the bed must have stirred Johnny, because he shifts, and his eyes blink open. And oh God, Patrick thinks again about the loss, and about all the most painful losses he’s been through, and knows he’d sooner go through them all again rather than see that look of pure pain in Johnny’s eyes.  
  
He hears his own name from his boyfriend’s lips, as ghostly as the rest of him, and suddenly he has to kiss him. Kiss him, touch him, get his arms around him and cover him with his own smaller body, as if he could somehow protect Johnny from the big cruel world outside their bed. Or at least use his mouth and hands to infuse into Johnny some of this impossibly strong  _feeling_  that’s making him want to cry or explode or do  _something._  
  
Johnny’s kissing back like a man drowning, hands finding Patrick’s jaw and making him wish he hadn’t shaved because it’s probably reminding Johnny about the loss again. Patrick grabs them and puts them on the safety of his shoulders as he tries to burrow his tongue as deep into Johnny’s mouth as it’ll go.  
  
“I love you.” It practically charges its way out of Patrick’s mouth when they come up for air. He thinks it’s the first time he’s said it, but that’s not important right now. If he can only make Johnny more aware of that, that he has that, that’s he’s never going to lose that and even if one thing’s just ended they’re just beginning, maybe that’ll be something to make tonight better.  
  
But Johnny’s in tears, and Patrick doesn’t know whether to be gratified or frightened that he’s letting him see him cry like this. He lines that striken face with kisses, nuzzles into his beard, still needing to express how much love is shredding his heart into little tiny pieces.  
  
Finally Johnny shifts, wiggling until his tears are trickling onto Patrick’s chest, locked into Patrick’s embrace. It’s the way Johnny’s held Patrick, sometimes, when they’ve collapsed onto the bed together to nap after a grueling practice or before a tense game.  
  
“When you’re ready,” Patrick says, “we need to discuss our plans for the summer, because I want to spend as much of it with you as possible. Especially right now, because I want to make you happy again, whenever you think that might happen. You can even test out ways to torture us and kick our asses on me if you want, anything for you right now, Johnny. Anything.” It shakes him how much he means it. He never thought he could be this desperate just to see anyone smile again.  
  
Johnny doesn’t respond; Patrick doesn’t even know how closely he’s listening. But that he’s hearing something he does believe, at least when Patrick presses one last wet kiss just above his ear, and whispers, “Go back to sleep, Johnny. I think we both need to catch up a little more before we deal with this. If you want me, I’ll be here when you wake up.”  
  
Like lightning Johnny’s big hand flies up and grasps Patrick’s. “Of course I want you here. Don’t ever think otherwise.”  
  
It’s not even any doubt he had that he was that brings the relief to Patrick’s heart. He knows Johnny wants him, is fairly confident Johnny loves him. It’s that he’s saying that even when most of him is convinced there’s nothing for him but the pain of loss, saying Patrick is getting through to him, getting him to appreciate what this year he has now won.  
  
***  
  
There have been plenty of times these past few weeks when Zdeno has found himself wishing that when the NHL had called him that afternoon, they’d handed him the four game suspension. It might not have stopped the tongues wagging completely, because there might have been calls for more games or less games, and he obviously still would’ve had to get in at least one scrap when the Habs had come to Boston, but after that it would’ve been  _over_. He really wouldn’t mind it being over at this point.  
  
But as he sits on a plane bound out of Canada, with his chances of having to go back there pretty low, because after they had to sneak past the Blackhawks he honestly doesn’t think the Canucks are going to make the final, he instead decides thinks worked out for the best. He doesn’t know if whatever alterations a suspension would have wrought on the Bruins’ season would’ve resulted in them making the second round, because that was a close one. And maybe somewhere in there the Habs and their fans have worked out much of their anger. Probably their winning would have worked out more, but he couldn’t have allowed that, so...  
  
One the other hand, since he’s sitting next to Looch, he has a reminder that they’re probably still mad at the team in general.  
  
And maybe Looch thinks it too, because he comments to Zdeno, “Philly next. We’re getting all the rowdy fans this year, are we not?”  
  
“Yeah,” Zdeno agreed. And this time they had to start in their territory. Just another thing for him to think about as captain. His mind was already halfway leaving this series behind.  
  
Even though Looch commented, “Sure was a dramatic first round, wasn’t it?”  
  
“Don’t know,” said Zdeno. “Almost all the higher seeds won. Except in a couple of series which were ones that could always have gone either way.” At any rate, it meant no surprise second round opponents for anyone. “But yes, it was.”


End file.
